Post Mortem
by babybluecas
Summary: First there was a blade piercing through his lungs, then there was nothing. When Dean opens his black eyes, he's changed. Soon he realizes that twisted soul comes with benefits.


There is no weight.

Its lack is the first thing there is and it comes before the lack of air whistling in the dead lungs or the lack of echo under the ribcage where the dead heart lies. A heart that rests unmoving, instead of pumping blood and pumping air to his cells, his muscles, his brain, which are all dead; his body is dead.

He opens his eyes and there is no weight. He raises his dead body, muscle after muscle tenses, holds up the spine until his dead body sits up and it works fine with no blood and no air and no electricity that makes the muscles contract and shift the bones in the joints – he is the muscle, he is the electricity and his body is a dead mannequin. He is weightless.

He is weightless, but it's not the lightness of being ethereal that rushed down on him from his arm to his heart and grasped it. He is not a ghost; he is more. And less. He's black and twisted and evil, inhibiting his own dead body sans heart, sans lungs, sans guilt. He is weightless.

He sits up on his bed, lifeless spine holding him up, severed through the hole in his lungs that are collapsed and flooded and out of air, holding a memory of his breath escaping through the wrong hole and the sweet taste of blood filling the void. Of the sweet taste of blood filling up his mouth as he tries to speak through the pain. Now there is no pain, the nerve endings are dead; he's destroyed and bruised and deteriorating – his body's rotting. He is rotten.

He is charred. And burned. And twisted.

And light.

And alone.

The old air in his room reeks of his own decay. It reeks of sulfur – not his – somebody was here. But that somebody is gone now. And somebody else is trying to sell his own soul for Dean's life and well being, but Dean is being fucking well. He examines the dummy of his dead body – he fists his palm and the skin restores, he stretches his neck, his spine is whole; he's fixing, mending the body with a single thought, he weaves the fibers of the lungs.

The last mend his lips: their corner pulls up in a lopsided smirk.

He is well.

He's not much time, if he doesn't feel like facing mourning Sammy just yet, then he's nothing left to do here, except for ridding his clothes of blood stains and donning a hole-less shirt. When ready, he doesn't snap his fingers; he's out of the room that's not really his and out of the bunker that pricks with spells, without raising a muscle, without blinking – he's too powerful for that. The power – that's not really something that he realizes he has, not even something that he feels. It just is. He is the power. He is the might.

Even the King knows that. Even the King fled as soon as the Knight opened his eyes.

Teleporting is nothing like flying, it lacks the movement. He's one place one moment and somewhere else the next. No air pumped out of his obsolete lungs, no stomp of his feet and bended knees in the landing. There's nothing in between.

Where he appears it's dark, past midnight, which is almost poetic – no better time to become condemned than midnight. It's the middle of a street and it's dark but for a streetlight that flickers at his presence and then exhausts itself and he still can see perfectly in the newly born darkness.

Darkness as freshly born as him.

There is nowhere he can't go. He starts walking towards the sounds of life in a godforsaken town. The sense of detachment from the physical form that he used to be doesn't bother him. As he treads, every rock he steps on stamps through the thick soles of his boots to the soles of his feet, every stray insect bumping into him is the lightest thump and a buzz, obliterated on spot where it dared to land.

He feels.

He feels just fine; even better, if differently, than before. He perceives in scales: from the strap of his duffle bag biting painlessly into his palm it's wrapped around to the cool wind brushing his face and reaching down behind his collar; refreshing, pleasant.

So the pleasure trumps the pain, he notes slyly, before he hits the bar.

The place is old and small; his favorite type of bar. The air is filled with the smell of whiskey and with smoke that doesn't affect his eyes that'd sting normally. Not until now does he consider that his eyes might as well be black like the whole of him is. He'll learn to control that wee detail later, for now the room is dark enough to blame it on odd shadows.

"Whiskey," he says over the old blues with the voice he hasn't tried out yet and to do just that he hums along to the song. Playing his vocal cords comes so easily he could pull off a full karaoke on spot – the thought draws out a sharp chuckle from his throat, as he lays down the money and grabs the glass.

"What can be so funny before the first shot, eh?"

He downs the said shot and turns to his right where the question came from. It's a good question, indeed, although more precisely: what can be so funny after your death? He glances at the man, scans his entirety - his body and, subliminally, his soul - with one quick sweep. His lip pulls up in a smirk.

"It depends on what funny you want to offer after one."

His boldness, newfound in the face of the man, comes out lightly, like it's natural to the new creature, unbound. If a perk of little conscience is a freedom to do what he wants, then Dean is the epitome of freedom. He flashes his teeth in a teasing smile. In his experience, flirting usually comes with benefits, whether it's just a bill slapped on the bar with a wink.

"How about starting with the second one?"

Drawback number one of being a demon: probably impossible to get drunk. Perk number one: not giving a damn if you're being fucked drunk or sober, as long as it feels good. Dean's knuckles go white, as if they got blood pumping out of them, when they grasp at the edge of the dirty sink he's bent over.

It's a filthy bathroom, worthy of a filthy demon like him. The stink of piss ubiquitous in the place fills up his nostrils, but it's easy to ignore when his tight ass is being filled with cock. The thrusts start slow then they become rapid and balls-deep. In the mirror that's smeared with dirt and dust and fuck knows what else, the reflection of his face hangs inches in front of him. At least his eyes are mostly green but for the moments when the lightnings of pleasure strike tenfold, robbing him of self-control and releasing his darkness to spill all over his whites.

Further back, somewhere out of range of light over Dean's head, reflects a bearded, handsome face twisted in arousal. The half-closed eyes appear almost black as the demon's in the dimness. His hands are down, one imprinting into Dean's loin bruises that heal instantly, the other one shagging his hard-on to the rhythm.

There'll be no proof on the animated corpse of him, but he's marked his passing lover with a trail of hickeys on his neck. His dark skin tasted of bonfire and salty sweat. Life and blood pulsed beneath it, warm against Dean's dead lips, his scruff rubbed rough against his cheek. The bitterness of smoke and whiskey mixed in his breath as they raced licking each other's mouths. His hands were firm, stripping Dean of his pants when the demon demanded more, because the pleasure trumps the pain, anyway.

It feels like a good beginning of his post-mortem existence. They're rocking the house with door locked behind them, Dean's knees are weak from the newness of it. Of strong body pressed to his, of thrusting that's both strange and delightful. It's a test ride of his corpse and a test ride of his fantasies that stayed buried deep inside that shiny soul of his, and now emerged from the dark whirl.

They swing frantically back and forth, until they reach climax. As the guy pumps himself into Dean, Dean, letting out the groan unrestrained, sputters all over the sticky, cracked tiles; the love-making worthy of a bathroom stall. His lover's broad shoulders press against him, holding him tightly for a few heartbeats to compose himself.

For company, Dean plays pretend catching his sharp breaths, already missing the sensation of exhaustion ripping his lungs apart. But that's something he can do without; all the important parts work as they should. When they separate, for a split second there's emptiness; it's gone before he can reach for his jeans lost around his ankles.

He forces his dead lungs to inhale the cold air with the smoke from the cigarette, unafraid of tar settling in. His lifeless feet lead him, tireless, aimless. Away from the bar, the night is peaceful and quiet and buzzing inside of him, with the power and the darkness that he is. The twisted, guiltless thing raises his hand, pinches the bridge of his nose, searching for something, anything from the human that he was. From the blame and the crap and the drilled in love. He shakes his head with a relief; there is nothing.

He is weightless.


End file.
